Friday, May 24, 2013

There are some people who, if they'd just had the disastrous
date I've had on their last night in New York, would despair. But not me. It's
all grist for the writing-mill. I don't need a
superannuation fund, my retirement plan will be a best selling memoir titled Dear Men of the World: just because I'm
buxom, doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you!

The first thing you need to know, is that yes I have large
breasts. Since I was about 15 I’ve been either a C or a D cup. And that’s meant
since that time men have judged my personality and character by the size of my boobs.
The offers, catcalls and leers I’ve had directed at me since I was a teenager
have been on a sliding scale of crude to offensive and harassment. Even the
good guys can’t help but stare. I once went on a date when I lived in
Edinburgh, with a radio-advertising executive I’d worked with on a PR campaign.
He was used to seeing me in office clothes. When we sat down at the restaurant
and I took off my coat, I didn’t think my dress was particularly low-cut but
his eyes did that thing you only see in cartoons when they pop out of someone’s
head. I didn’t think that was even possible. And after a reading I gave at a
Catholic wedding, the very sweet and very devout priest said, “I’ll now ask the
breast man to give a reading.” My friends still haven’t let me live that one
down.

The second thing you need to know is that yes, I’m in New
York at the moment. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, living the high life.
I’ve had wonderful friends visit and have gone to shows, eaten great food and
been shopping, shopping, shopping.

On my first day in the city I went shopping in Soho, near
the corner of Broadway and Lafayette St. One particular shop caught my eye (the
word SALE may have been involved) and in I went. I found a truly gorgeous blue
organza and cotton top that fluted down into a mini peacock-like tail. The shop
manager was very taken with me straight away. After a delightful spot of mutual
flirting, he asked me out. I gave him my number but told him I was spending
time with a good friend who was visiting so he could call me after she’d left.
He respected that and after some toing and froing we arranged a date.

What a frisson to my travels a bit of light-hearted flirting
gave, and I noticed that men all over the city were eager to indulge this with
me. Every time I spoke men’s eyes would light up and they would want to hear
more. It’s rare that an Anglo-Australian gets to be exotic, so yes I lapped it
up. It’s been fun and harmless and something that doesn’t happen in Canberra,
where flirting seems to be a lost art. Here smiling, holding a gaze and laughing
are all about attention, not intention. That’s the big difference;
it’s just about sharing a moment of mutual interest with someone and making
each other feeling a bit special. It isn’t about trying to get into someone’s
pants.

So I was excited to be going on a date with someone I’d
enjoyed such a moment with. Of course, I might be light-hearted and adventurous
when I’m travelling but I’m not stupid, I made sure I let my big sister at home
know where I would be, what his name was, his phone number and what shop he
managed. To be honest I didn’t even know his last name, and I was a bit nervous
about going out with a stranger when I am totally on my own in a strange city. I
even dreamt the night before the date that we were in Central Park and had to
escape a horde of marauding zombies.

As it turned out, it wasn’t zombies I had to worry about.
More like a giant octopus with tentacles. His hands were EVERYWHERE within the
first five minutes. I had to brush him off my arse and somewhere even more
intimate, and I don't mean my boobs. I made it clear from the get–go that I
wasn't going to sleep with him. And after that it became a game of how soon he could
find an excuse to leave. 40 minutes. I ended up heading back to my own
neighbourhood and buying myself dinner. At least there the waitress admired the
lovely silk dress I’d put on. And then a man at the subway exit turnstile
admired the very fabulous shoes I was wearing, so the care I took with my
outfit didn’t go unnoticed.

So here I am, in my New York apartment, writing about a
crappy date. How very, very Sex and the
City of me. It’s just as well I am a writer; although if I wrote this up as
fiction people would say it’s too far fetched to be believed.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

A vintage glass bell is not the most practical travel accessory but it seems fitting for my travels.

It hasn’t been with me the whole time; we found each other in the seaside town of Rockport, Massachusetts, an hour out of Boston. Rockport has a long history, it’s America’s most renowned artists’ colony, and its harbour is the view most depicted in artistic interpretations in the whole country. I was staying on the headland, overlooking the sea, and visited the town by taking the old Garden Path along the shoreline. Even if the guesthouse I was staying in hadn’t been called The Captain’s House, I still would have expected the dashing poltergeist from The Ghost and Mrs Muir to stop by. Sadly no such visit occurred, which is probably for the best, although I know he would have liked my glass bell.